The Light in the Darkness
by amelieelizabet
Summary: I vowed never to tell him how I felt, for I didn't want to lose the one person who put up with me, and kept this vow, until one particular case threw my world into disarray. It was the case that rendered me blind. SHJW Pre-Slash COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

I was lying to John when I said I was married to my work, that evening when we chased the taxi. I was very, very lonely, and seeking company. And so was he.

My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am the world's best and only consulting detective. I work alone, but for the exception of Dr John Watson, my flatmate. He was, as idiots say, an anomaly.

He wasn't an anomaly to me, of course. But sometimes his reasons for doing what he did were astoundingly hard to decipher. For example, why he stayed with me regardless of the countless warnings to the contrary; why he didn't move far away after being strapped with bombs. Why he showed me patience, affection, and concern.

He forced me to eat when I was on my thinking sprees. He brought me the newspaper when I was in a rant. He circled interesting articles that he thought may be of interest to me. He pacified Mrs Hudson when I shot the wall… again. He got my skull back, he liasoned with Lestrade when I infuriated him past the point of tolerating me. He was there for me like no one else was. And I found myself experiencing emotions I had never felt before. I felt changed, and it was odd. I had changed, for John Watson. I vowed never to tell him how I felt, for I didn't want to lose the one person who put up with me, and kept this vow, until one particular case threw my world into disarray.

It was the case that rendered me blind.

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><p>AN: Okay, readers, this is a new story of mine that I decided to write because, well, it's the summer holidays and I'm going to be writing a lot. It won't have 2000+ word chapters like my HP stories, but I hope to update it regularly and keep it a fun little summer project. I hope you like it, it's slash, of course, and **I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters. The television programme belongs to the BBC, and the original SH characters to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **Thanks...


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!" called Dr John Watson, waking me from my sleep. I shot up and stumbled to the wardrobe, to throw on my robe, before skidding to the door just as he opened it.

"Ah, John. I was wondering when you would wake up. I've been thinking, and I reckon Lestrade will be calling today. I read in the paper yesterday about inquiries into a certain 'suicide' that looks suspicious and I just have that feeling that says he'll be round, begging for my help, as always." I drawled, covering up for the fact that I never get out of bed until he calls, which he does every morning, and like every morning I pretend I have been up for hours.

"And I suppose, as always, you'll want me to assist you because no one else will help?" John smiled, sending palpitations through my heart. I hate it when he does that to me, making me weak at the knees. It feels like I'm completely out of my depth, something that is normally a physical impossibility for me and something that I in no way like. I do put up with it, however, for John. When I nodded, he chuckled. "How did I guess. Anyway, Mrs Hudson said that, even though she is our landlady and not our housekeeper, breakfast is on the table. She also told me to tell you that you shouldn't be so rude to me, because I am a perfectly respectable young gentleman, and if you have kicked me out of the bedroom for something you think I've done wrong then you should be ashamed of yourself, and to hide from her until she calms down," he smirked wryly, and my heart nearly stopped.

"I suppose she woke you up in your room, then? That woman refuses to believe that we are not together, and are perfectly content with not sleeping in the same bed." I countered, even though in my mind I was screaming that I was most definitely _not_ content sleeping in a different bed. "I shall get dressed, and meet you in the kitchen for breakfast. Freshen up, John; Lestrade is coming over early today." With that I shut the door and rested against it, tilting my head back. After contemplating my fate for a few minutes, I reluctantly jumped in the shower and got dressed in my customary black tailored suit and deep purple shirt, carefully arranging my hair and slipping on those expensive Italian shoes. Before I knew it I was walking into the kitchen where John sat, reading the paper, dressed in casual low-slung jeans and white shirt, covered by one of those hideous granny-knit jumpers he refuses to throw away. Now that he's lost weight, I really must get him fitted for some suits. He brings down the reputation of the business with his boy-next-door look. But then again, people are more willing to talk to him than to me. Maybe a fitting is not to be on the top of my priority list.

"Sit down, Sherlock. There's coffee there, and bacon and eggs, or porridge if you wish," John gestured, not looking up from the paper. I grabbed an apple from the counter and bit into it, leaning against the worktop behind my flatmate, scanning the newspaper. It seemed as though there was an official investigation being made about the supposed suicide, which meant…

_**Ding Dong!**_

Ah, there we are. Lestrade. John and I looked at each other knowingly, and moved into the places we usually assumed when the Detective Inspector decides to drop in; me on the couch, thinking out loud about something exponentially brilliant and waving my riding crop around in the air whilst John types up what I was saying. We could hear him stomping up the stairs so the fun began.

"So we can see from the evidence found in Donovan's car that she is indeed… oh that is brilliant. He's in on it too! Anderson had the 'day off due to illness' when he was really… The whole set up of the station revolves around the two of them!" I leapt up, as if to conclude my amazing point about the two most moronic officers in Lestrade's station, then pretended to notice the man himself standing, almost hiding in the doorway, trying to hear what I was saying about his team. "Oh, good morning Inspector. I take it you've come to beg for my help on the suicide? The car crash?"

"Well, you know I wouldn't come to you if I wasn't desperate, Holmes. There's been another one. It looks like the Study In Pink all over again, but not pill-induced suicides. We need your help." He looked pained to admit it, and I had to turn my back to hide the smirk.

"What do you think, John? I mean if you aren't too busy I guess we could gift this poor, stupid man with my superior intellect, and solve another case for them," I pretended to consult the man sitting by our desk, winking.

"Well it would mean we would have to stop working on the Dono-" I cut over him, playing out the scene that would no doubt drive Lestrade crazy.

"That's the _confidential_ one, John." Spinning back to the DI, I smiled. "We'll take it. Go back to your toys, and let the big boys do the work."

And thus begun my downfall.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello again! Here's chapter 3, dedicated to my totally awesome, supermegafoxyawesomehot best friend Addy, and these lovely people; acids-and-bases, Just Another Face in the Croud, probablyquantum, OrynonUK. They reviewed, and I love them =] review to get a dedication, and to make me happy =] on with the show! **I don't own it... =[**

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><p>It was a relatively easy case; a middle-aged woman crashed into a brick garden wall with her seatbelt on, creating lacerations on her shoulders and neck. Nothing suspicious, apart from the bruising on the bottoms of her hands, which indicated a struggle and pounding of fists, showing that she possibly had no way of stopping the car. She was forced to drive to her death. It made me think of A Study in Pink again, apart from the fact that the evidence was glaringly obvious; this was <em>not<em>, in any way, a suicide.

"So, Sherlock?" questioned Lestrade, interrupting my rapid-moving thought processes. "What do you say?" I turned and smirked at the officer.

"Clear murder; signs of struggle, no mud transferred from the sole of her shoe to the acceleration peddle, bruising on the base of her hands indicating she made fists and pummelled them onto the steering wheel, from these lines here, and the window of the car, due to the general, lighter surface bruising. She intended to get into the car, but didn't make any move to start it. Someone else was controlling the car. From the model, Audi Q7, no more than three months old judging by the condition of the paint, six if she keeps it in good condition which is unlikely due to her housewife style. However there is something off about the car; it is a rear wheel drive." At the blank looks, I scoffed. "It must be odd, living in your minds. So much empty space. _Audi always refuse to build rear-wheel cars. _They stick to all-wheel or front-wheel drive. Anyway, our victim was not at home when she got in the car, she was intent on _going _home, shown by the throwing of the bag into the passenger side, not done when one goes out for easy reach when they arrive; it is clear that she was going to take her time leaving the car when she got home. Mud on the base of the shoe indicates a field, possibly dropping a son to football; judging by the amount of lipstick missing, less than a normal application, she kissed someone goodbye before leaving. Any questions?" I asked, finished with my deductions.

"That was… astounding." Muttered John, causing me to turn away, for fear my cheeks would stain pink.

"Come on then, you madman; we have another crime scene to scope. I'll put Donovan onto finding the relatives of the deceased." Lestrade sighed, walking back to his car. I snapped my gloves off and threw them at Anderson, who loitered irritatingly on the edge of the area.

"You can play now, Anderson." I called over my shoulder. John barely kept down a laugh as we walked to the road to get a taxi, side by side. It was endearing the way he admired my thought processes, and tolerated my constant abuse of all those around me. "Tell me, John; what type of person do you think did this?" I asked, eager to see if he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

"Well, I don't know. It wouldn't be another Moriarty case, would it?" he asked almost fearfully. A shiver flew down my spine; so he _was_ thinking what I was thinking. "I mean, he's played with us for long enough, hasn't he?" I shook my head.

"I was contemplating the idea of another Moriarty case, too. He'd never give up; he thinks he's too clever. He's my 'fan'. He knows everything about us and won't stop until we give in. He wants me to admit that he's better than me." I looked down, frowning.

"But he's not! Sherlock, don't even think about it," John warned. I glanced up at him to see his face filled with anger. "You might think you'd be saving people's lives by surrendering to him but you'd only be fuelling his fire and letting him think that he's so good he can do whatever he likes because even the great Sherlock Holmes could beat him. Don't give him that satisfaction." John was right.

"You're right, John," I admitted. "Anyway, we have arrived. Hurry, we haven't got all day!" I called as I shot from the taxi, leaving John to pay. I know he didn't mind, because I paid him back discreetly, or if I forgot, Mycroft did. I felt him jog up behind me and huff. Interesting.

The scene of this crime was completely different to the first, but I could see that there were certain similarities, ones that were subtle to idiots, yet to me were glaringly obvious. John looked at me, confused.

"How on earth could this be related to the one we've just come from?" he questioned, looking at the crash. "For a start, the victim is a man, a middle-aged man. I just think that it is a poor coincidence that one woman was murdered and this man crashed." I shook my head and pointed to the car.

"Another rear-wheel drive Audi, an Audi A4 Quattro. Look at his shoes; mud. If you observe his fists there is the same obvious bruising as the first victim. He crashed into a garden wall too, resulting in right shoulder whiplash. There is something else… trauma of the CD player, do you see?" I spun around, throwing my hands up. "Of course! Oh, that is brilliant. Look at it! There was some removal of the CD player in the Q7, and in this car too! If I…" Pulling out some tweezers, I stuck them in the CD player and pulled out… "Yarn?"

"It's a message, isn't it, Sherlock." John's alarmed voice penetrated my thoughts. I was putting it all together… there were letters, there was a message… Rear-wheel, Audi, Mud, Obvious bruising, Trauma of CD player, Yarn, Right-shoulder whiplash…

"Moriarty. John, he's told us it's him." A quick rearranging of the letters made M.O.R.I.A.R.T.Y. Our worst nightmare. Suddenly my phone went off. "Hello?"

"_Hello, Sherlock; did you miss me?"_ the Irish lilt of James Moriarty filtered through my phone and John's eyes went wide. He could hear the madman. _"I got bored… so I decided to play a game. Get in the car, Sherlock. I know you know what will happen to you, but I bet you want to see if you can escape."_ The phone went dead, and I looked up, over to where our taxi dropped us off. There was an Audi TTRS sitting in the spot, empty. I looked at John, who shook his head fearfully.

"No, Sherlock, don't you dare. It will _kill_ you, do you understand that? You may get off on the investigating but playing his games will _get you killed!"_ he almost yelled, causing Lestrade to look over.

"I know I can figure it out, John. I need to go; tell Lestrade what we discovered. Oh yes," I paused as I was walking away. "We need more milk." Then I went up to the Audi, climbed in, and it drove off. I was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: a quick but short update for you here, dedicated to acids and bases, SChavva24, Madamoiselle Grantaire, and smimjin. Thanks for the lovely reviews!

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><p>The first thing that turned on in the car was the CD player, which unlike the other cars was not tampered with. It was Jim Moriarty, speaking to me on a pre-recorded CD.<p>

"I'm so glad you got in the car, Sherlock, it would have been an awful shame to have killed little Johnny boy." That was true; I had seen the red dot between John's eyes when I was on the phone; I had no choice but to comply with Moriarty's wishes. That, and my curiosity was burning. "See, I got bored, and I decided to play a game. I don't want you around, Sherlock Holmes," there was a pause in which I could almost hear him trying to build up the suspense. "I want you dead. But, if you manage to figure it out and stop the car, you will live." The tape started to play gentle classical music, and I slammed my hands on the steering wheel.

"They got into the car voluntarily. Why would people do that? Unless their cars happened to be identical to those that killed them. Okay. Then how is the car controlled?" I stopped, thinking about it. "Simple yet effective. There is no method of integrating a computer system into the car to control it that would be easy enough to splurge on a killing to get my attention, so it is literally remote controlled. And the asphyxiation was caused by the tampered CD player… I've got it!" I cried, sitting up. "But that means… I can't stop it." Realisation dawned on me that I was stuck in a car, careening to my death. I quickly took off my thick coat, placing it over the wheel so my head wouldn't shatter on impact, and placed my scarf in a padding fashion on my shoulder while putting the seatbelt on, dragging out a bit to use as a gas mask in case I needed it, though I doubted it seeing as the CD player was fully functioning. Doing this, all I could do is watch where I was going to crash into, and send a message to John. _Deciphered the murders, and the motives behind it. Can't stop car; remote controlled by JM. Sorry. SH._

The streets of London flashed past, and the tension built in the small yet powerful car. I knew that there would be irony in where I was killed, but I was only just figuring out where. _Left, right, straight, bypass, lights, left, straight, lights, right, traffic bypass, left…_ oh god. I was going to crash into our home. The car was heading for 221B Bakers Street. I had to warn Mrs Hudson. _Mrs H. Get out of house; car careening towards it. Can't stop. Thanks for all. SH._ I send a quick text to her, then my thoughts turned to my brother. Should I let go of the past? Should I move past the childish feud in my final minutes? I decided I'd never get another chance, so texted him too. _Mycroft; sorry about the feud. But you experimented on my dog. So I experimented on your girlfriend, psychologically. Fair game, I know. Sorry for all these years. SH._ There it was; my confession of why Mycroft's only girlfriend moved to the other side of the world when he was seventeen. I was ten, and he had 'experimented' on my dog, who I was teaching all sorts of things, meaning he died. I never forgave him, but now was the time, now I was hurtling at… Christ, seventy miles an hour to my death. There was our home, just down the street. I closed my eyes, and the last thing I thought of was smiling blue eyes, on a war-hardened face. _John…_

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><p>There were three texts on a phone in a car wreckage on Bakers Street, London. They read;<p>

_Sherlock! Get out of that car! You can't die! Why did you… Please survive. I need you. JW._

_I'm out already. What car? What are you thanking me for? Tea's on the table._

_What is happening, Sherlock? Why are you apologising? Text me back. I will be round in twenty minutes, don't do anything rash. MH._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Here's a chapter from John's point of view. The poor guy; even after all his military training, one event sends him into a fractured reality, lost and alone. Hope you enjoy it, even though it's rather angsty and concerned. 3 to Addy, my driving force. Dedicated to the lovely smimjin, itsravensfault, doctorjay, and -Totally-T3ii3. Review and get a dedication!

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><p>Sherlock had got in the car. He had received a phone call from Moriarty and had gone to the car the maniac had sent for him. He'd left me and gone.<p>

I thought we were closer than that.

Over the months we had been living together, Sherlock and I had been in some pretty tough situations, including my life nearly ending when I was strapped into a bomb vest. It was then that I realised my petty crush on the worlds only consulting detective had grown to love. I was ready to sacrifice anything for him. But I was not ready for him to sacrifice himself.

I haven't told him how I feel. I'm not stupid; I got the message that night in the restaurant when he said he considered himself married to his work. Anyone could work that one out. So now, I live with the genius, I follow him around, I clean up his messes, I pick up the pieces, I make sure he doesn't destroy himself and I show him the care that others are not patient enough to give him, the care he deserves. I felt a presence behind me from where I stood, staring at the spot the car had vanished from, and turned to see Sally Donovan.

"Where did the freak go?" she asked disinterestedly, most likely because DI Lestrade told her to and not out of any actual concern. "Off to become more of a psychopath?" I scoffed.

"When will you get it? He is a _sociopath_, not a psychopath. They are two entirely different matters." At her blank stare I continued to elaborate. "Sociopaths are people who have antisocial personalities caused by social or familial dysfunction. Psychopaths are people whose antisocial personalities are caused by an abnormality or defect within themselves rather than their surroundings. So get it right. Sherlock is a high-functioning so-ci-o-path." I stressed before storming off. I needed to do something, _anything_ to take my mind off the fact that Sherlock had just willingly got into a car that may kill him. I went over to Lestrade to relay Sherlock's findings, though it pained me greatly to do so… thinking about Sherlock, the man I loved, walking so casually to his possible death. "DI," I greeted, seeing him smile quickly in response. "It's Moriarty, and he was just killing these people to leave a message to Sherlock; Mud on shoes, Obvious bruising, Right-shoulder whiplash, Interior intact; see the airbags didn't even go, Audi cars, Rear-wheel drive, Trauma to the sound system, and Yarn found inside. Only Sherlock would have figured it out," my voice was dangerously near to cracking, so I turned away. "I need to leave, Sherlock's run off again," I joked, but Lestrade knew my heart wasn't in it.

"Thanks for the information, Dr Watson. We'll be in touch about anything else." Lestrade replied, before busying himself with the crime scene. I just wanted to know whether Sherlock was safe. That was all. Just then my phone vibrated in my coat pocket, bringing me out of my reverie. My breath caught in my throat; _1 New Message from – SH._ The text read _Deciphered the murders, and the motives behind it. Can't stop car; remote controlled by JM. Sorry. SH. _I panicked. No. He couldn't die, he couldn't leave me, not once he had become my anchor after I returned from the war, not after everything we'd been through. I quickly came to my senses and tried to type out a reply, my hands trembling astronomically, when an incoming call stopped me in my tracks. MH.

"Dr John Watson?" I answered hesitantly. I could hear on the end of the line rushed noises, like someone was in a hurry, but this was Mycroft's number; he never hurries.

"John, I need to know where Sherlock is. He has just messaged me apologising for the feud that started when we were younger. He would never do that unless he thought he had little or no chance of surviving a situation." Not for the first time that day my blood ran cold. "Tell me, John; where is my little brother?" it was completely new to hear Mycroft so unprofessional, to hear his concern so clearly for his brother not hidden behind sarcasm or feigned indifference.

"Moriarty. Moriarty called him and he got in a car… it's remote controlled and Sherlock says he can't stop it. He… he just got into the car…" I could feel tears pricking my eyes and angrily wiped them away.

"Right, I will send a car for you and together we will go to your flat. I'm sure he won't be harmed; he's a Holmes, after all." Mycroft hung up, not even asking for an address. Before I knew it a car swung around the corner and I clambered in, resuming my attempts at typing to Sherlock. Eventually I got out; _Sherlock! Get out of that car! You can't die! Why did you… Please survive. I need you. JW._ I felt so lost, so broken not knowing if he had been driven into a wall or not. I just sat in shell-shocked silence while I was driven home, the bad, nauseating feeling in my stomach growing as we neared 221B Bakers Street. The journey took ten minutes from where I was, so there was ten minutes of pandemonium inside my head. I was so worried.

Smoke. Smoke was billowing from the middle of Bakers Street and it was swarming with ambulances and police cars. Dear God no. I threw myself from the car, which was slowing down, and shot like a bullet towards our flat. The area was cordoned off but I just ducked under the tape; I needed to know, I needed to see for myself. And there it was; the silver Audi mangled and crushed in the entrance way to 221B Bakers Street. There were paramedics and police officers lingering everywhere, when a wheeled stretcher made its way past me, over the rubble. I flung myself in its path, ignoring the protests from the paramedics, and stared down at the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes.

"No! Sherlock!" I heard myself cry, falling to my knees at his side. People were trying to talk to me, trying to move me but I fought them off. "Why did you get in the car, you idiot? Why!" I yelled. Suddenly Mycroft and Lestrade were there, helping me up and turning me around.

"John, calm down." Mycroft soothed, trying to retain composure whilst staring at the broken form of his brother. "Moriarty was caught; I had people scout the area for him and they found him. I will deal with him appropriately. For now, we must accompany Sherlock to the hospital. Come, I will get you in the ambulance with him." I nodded numbly and followed, stumbling on pieces of brick. "Mrs Hudson was not in the building at the time," he added, making me remember that I hadn't even thought about our kind old landlady. Guilt surged through me and I embraced it, letting it take me away from the thoughts of Sherlock's prone body lying on the gurney. Mycroft got me onto the ambulance, where I grasped Sherlock's hand, and the rest was a blur. Even the Doctor within me didn't want to hear what they were saying; it just meant I'd know exactly how bad his injuries were, and at this moment I didn't want to know. I just wanted Sherlock, _my _Sherlock, to be alright.

How naïve I could be.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Part 6 of the summer project, and I have a feeling that this will get done faster than my other 4 fanfics on here... but anyway. Dedicated to my lovely reviewers; Catindahat, LIGHTNSHADOWS, smimjin, Madita, OryonUK. You guys are just... so cool. Every review I get makes me more axious to make you guys happy and finish it. **Challenge: First to review 75 words + can have three chapters dedicated entirely to themselves. No one else. And their name goes on my profile. **ILY! =]

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><p>When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing. When I closed them, I saw everything. That was the way my world was, after the crash. My universe had been flipped upside down, becoming the polar opposite of what I used to be.<p>

My other senses were more finely tuned once the blindness set in; I could hear more, smell more, taste more. I relied more on touch than I ever had. My sight was gone, and I had to make do. But so was my work.

What sort of consulting detective can't see? I work from my visual aids and without my sharp, keen observation deductions were thrice as hard to make, let alone accurately. I knew as soon as they told me I could possibly lose my sight forever that my career was over, that I would now have to live on benefits and charity from others, most of all Mycroft. And then there was John.

I knew he was with me when I woke; the warm, firm, unrelenting pressure on my hand was my anchor back to reality. But he hadn't spoken at all, and once the doctors told him I was fine, apart from the blindness, he had left. Now, a week later, I haven't seen him. The doctors tried to give me PTS counselling, tried giving me therapy for my blindness, but I refuse to take it. There is no stress here; I am merely suffering the aftereffects of an unpleasant car crash. I don't need therapy, because I know my eyesight will return. It has to. I have to have eyes, I have to see. Now I am useless.

Mycroft told me that John had to 'sort some things out', but hadn't left me since he arrived at the crash site, only taking this opportunity now he knew I wasn't going anywhere. I knew somehow that this was true; I knew that I could feel him, sense him with me. I missed that constant presence. Hell, I missed John. Now I was alone with the darkness my imagination conjured up the visual images that had most interested me before, which consisted of cases, and my very own Dr Watson. Mostly John.

I berated myself; why had I been so stupid as to not tell him how I felt before getting in the car? I knew as soon as I was told my sight may never return that he would not want to be around me anymore. After all, the only thing he stuck around for in the first place was my mind, my powers of deduction. Now I was incapable of that, who would be able to tolerate a high-functioning sociopathic blind man? Though one part of my mind argued that I was not a sociopath anymore, not in the truest sense of the word. I had feelings for John, I felt guilt every time I insulted him. I knew when I disappointed him and tried to avoid such situations. He had changed me.

"Sherlock, you are allowed to leave today. I have spoken to your landlady and she agrees with me that it is for the best that you move in with me, so that you can have the optimum care." That was Mycroft, trying to control me again. "I am sorry about John's other obligations, but we all feel that living with me will be the best for you." I shook my head in the darkness against my brother's condescending tone.

"I do not wish to live with you, Mycroft. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself in my flat. I refuse to move from 221B, and you have no method of moving me that is legal, or morally correct. Leave this cripple his one delusion of independence, in his flat." I replied, standing and putting on the coat that had been laid in my lap. It was my best coat, the one that reached my knees and pulled up at the back. I felt so aristocratic in it, but the only thing missing was my scarf. "Are you a moron, Mycroft? Are you as empty headed as all those others out there? Why on earth did you bring my coat but not a scarf? Now my neck is completely exposed and I risk a chill." I could just picture his frown.

"Anthea did not see any scarves when she fetched your clothes, she merely brought what she usually saw you in, minus the missing item. You can make do out to the car, Sherlock, don't be a child." His tone was so patronising, my back stiffened.

"You let your dogsbody into my _room?_" I growled. Hadn't he learnt from those years we spent growing up together? "Nobody enters my bedroom without express permission. And what do you mean, missing? I have two entire drawers full of silk scarves; how could two drawers of scarves disappear?" But the answer came in the form of soft shoes, limping slightly, awkward and upset.

"So that I had a reason to come back here," John's voice crackled from the doorway. I spun round, wishing so desperately that I could reach out and grasp his hand, that I could see him. All I could see when I heard his voice was the glaring red dot on his forehead. "I tried to visit, really I did." His voice seemed hoarse, either from disuse or… crying? Must be disuse. "I couldn't, though. I just kept seeing your face, covered in blood." I heard Mycroft almost silently leave the room, stopping by John. I sat back on the bed, back to the Doctor. "Why did you get in that car, Sherlock? Did you suddenly lose your mind?" he hadn't approached, hadn't come any closer.

"I understand your wish to stay away, Doctor Watson. I completely understand. I ask, though, that if you wish to withdraw your acquaintance from my list, that you find another flat. I am keeping my residence in Bakers Street and know that it would be awkward, so you have a week." My heart broke when I said this, and I swore I heard his voice catch. When he spoke, it was most definitely thicker.

"What… is that what you want, Sherlock?" He asked. I wanted to scream at him; of course I didn't, I had fallen so irrevocably in love with him that I never wanted him further than a foot away from me, but his next question froze me to the core. "Do you care that little for me? If that is the case I will arrange to be out of the house within two days." Tears welled in my unseeing eyes.

"Very well, John. It is not up to me whether you stay, however I know that it is difficult to put up with me when I have sight. Now I am no more than a crippled burden on society. It would have been better if the crash had killed me. I would have been more use to science, then." This apathetic statement seemed to get a reaction out of John. He stormed over to me and shook me, causing me to flinch. I hated not knowing when someone's hand would approach, and even though I did not mind John, such a violent and sudden action made me curl in on myself, defensive to my vulnerability. Then the shaking was replaced by a tight hug from a man who was shuddering himself.

"I am so sorry Sherlock." He whispered. "But never, _ever_ say that again. The world would be a dull, empty place without your mind, however temporarily impaired. I'm so very sorry that I shocked you; I didn't realise… didn't think. Of course you would be alarmed; you can't see anything coming. How thick can I be?" I felt his heavy gaze on my face, and I turned away, standing. "Your scarf," he muttered, putting it into my hand. It didn't feel like a smothering gesture due to my blindness, it felt normal. "Could you give me an hour to pack? I'll come back for the rest tomorrow." He was subdued, and my mind raced. He was leaving. John was leaving me. For good. No.

"John. John?" I called, trying to turn to him, trying to find him in the abyss. Suddenly his hands were on mine, turning me to face him. It was difficult to say this, to admit my feelings, but I had to. "Don't leave me," I whispered. I was engulfed in his strong arms once more and, on instinct, my arms wrapped around his back.

"I would never leave you if you didn't want me to, Sherlock." His voice was slightly muffled by my shoulder, but soon enough his trembling fingers took my scarf and wrapped it around my neck, in the exact way I liked it. Grasping my hand, he slipped it though the crook in his arm so he could unobtrusively guide me. "Let's go home."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This is dedicated to **OryonUK**, my lovely reviewer of 165 words, just in one review! Love to you =] Anyway, another John chapter, so on with the show! Reviews mean updates, detailed or plentiful reviews mean fast updates! **75 word challenge will be up in chapter 9, which will be OryonUK's third chapter dedication. Anyone who reviews 100+ before that automatically gets the next 3 slots! =]**

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><p>"Here we are, Sherlock. I'll pay for the taxi." We had finally arrived home, and I gently nudged the genius' hand to the door, so he could open it himself. I knew the worst thing I could do, would be to smother him and do everything for him, so little clues and tiny hints seemed to be the best course of action. As Sherlock left the cab, I followed, carefully watching him for signs of whether he was going to trip. He had, though, told the driver to stop so that the front wheel was in line with the pole outside the house before ours. It seemed as though he had visualised the street, and with that brilliant mind, he had counted the paces he needed to take to get to our door. What he hadn't figured into this plan, though, were other people. Just as I turned to pay the cabbie, none of which I completely trusted anymore, I heard a yell from someone behind me, and I whipped round just in time to see Sherlock fall backwards after colliding with a bulky man walking in the opposite direction.<p>

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" The man was yelling, brushing his arms off angrily, as if it was Sherlock's fault. "Can't you see anything? You must be bloody blind!" The abuse continued and I threw money at the taxi driver, rushing to Sherlock's side.

"How insensitive and rude can you be?" I burst, seeing the blood on the back of Sherlock's head where he had fallen. "He _is_ blind!" Helping the man up, I turned to the hulking giant and scowled. "I hope you're bloody happy. He's only just got out of hospital, and now he may have to go back." With that I assisted Sherlock up the step and into the building. My angry façade dropped and all I felt was concern. "God, Sherlock, are you alright?" I asked worriedly.

"Just a bump to the head, John. I'm fine, really." He replied quietly. I scanned the back of his head once more, noting the blood was still flowing, though that didn't make me more concerned due to head injuries always bleeding profusely. I still wanted to get him upstairs and get his hair washed, to get the blood out before it congealed against his skull.

"Come on, Sherlock, we'll get the blood out of your hair. I bought you another purple shirt after…" I trailed off, not knowing how to address it. And it was true; as soon as I left the hospital I went out and found the exact same shirt, exact same size and colour. The one he had been wearing was torn and bloody beyond repair.

"After the car crash. I'm not sensitive about it, John. I think that continuing on as normal would be the best thing to do. However we will have to find more to do in our time, because I am no longer a consulting detective." I was shocked, still and unmoving. _What?_ It seemed Sherlock sensed that movement, deduced that thought, even without his sight. "It is impossible for me, John. I no longer have use of my eyes, and they were what I used above all else to deduce! How can I observe without the tools essential to observation?" His voice barely rose and I heard the desperate attempt to cover up desolation clear in his voice. Instead of turning him away to walk up the stairs, I pulled him into a firm hug, because he needed it so much. He was so lost, without those eyes. He buried his face in my neck, and I could feel by the tension in his body that he was trying not to cry.

"Hey, let's get upstairs, make some tea, and relax. You need more sleep and less darting off everywhere, anyway. Think of this as a temporary leave; you've just got an opportunity to expand your knowledge base by means of other senses, while letting your body sleep and be fed and relax as much as it needs to, before your sight returns and you go rushing off again." He merely leant against me, unresponsive, as I manoeuvred him up the stairs and into the flat. I looked at him affectionately, reaching up and almost brushing my fingers against his cheek, but suddenly remembering his reaction the last time I had reached out unexpectedly. Hugs were fine; they were comfort, and so was guidance, but actual gestures like shaking or caressing… they needed warning.

"John?" his voice was dull, lifeless, much like his posture. I sat him on the sofa and knelt in front of him, alerting him to my presence by lifting his hands to my shoulders. Suddenly his hands were running across my face, almost scanning it. Then I realised; he was _seeing_ me. "You look so sad, why are you sad?" he asked quietly.

"Because there's no happiness left in you, Sherlock." I replied, tugging on the hem of his coat. "You've taken this accident so personally, and it's knocked the spark from you. Come on, Sherlock, you've built up enough inside of you. You need to let it out." I spread my arms, and because his hands had come back to rest on my shoulders he felt the movement, and he was in my arms, curling in on himself, sobbing. Sherlock Holmes was breaking down in my embrace. I sat on the sofa and the usually stoic, emotionless man was in a ball on my lap, weeping. I knew for a fact that he could never love me, but this innocence, this display of trust was enough for me, enough to show that I wasn't just nothing to him. I just sat, holding him while he cried, soothing him and caring for him, until he stopped, gently slowing to the point that his breathing had evened out and he seemed close to sleep. The gangly, six foot man was so young in my lap, breathing softly on my neck while his hand grasped my collar. He was folded in on himself so much so that the doctor in me had to take him off to his bedroom, where he could rest and not get an injury from it. I laid him down and sat next to him, observing him in his open state. He was no longer the detective, no longer so sharp. Yes, his aristocratic features would never fade, but he was softer, less intimidating. I ran my hand through his soft locks, brushing it out of his face, and smiled. Yes, this was worth the heartbreak, this was worth the battle. Being in love with Sherlock Holmes was all that mattered any more.

I remember vaguely the crash. I felt like _I_ was the one who had been in the crash, I felt the pain. All the way to the hospital, the only thing I could do was watch his face, that beautiful, bloodied face, and hold his hand; the only thing I could hear was the rasping rattle of his breath, indicating a punctured lung. The only thing I could feel was the skin beneath one hand, and the silk of the scarf I had taken off one of the paramedics at the scene. He loved that scarf, and the same with the shirt that was torn beyond repair. I would have to replace those once he woke up. When we arrived at the hospital Sherlock was whisked away into emergency surgery, to remove some piece of something that was imbedded somewhere in his porcelain skin, to fix the lung and generally try to ensure he didn't die. The only reason why I wasn't there with him was Mycroft's reminder that I would be a distraction, an _obstruction_ to the surgeons trying to save his life. That left me to pace frantically in the hallway, waiting for his return. Mycroft was arranging Sherlock's private room, and guaranteeing my ability to stay there at all times. The odd fellow even got me a bed in the room with his little brother, so I didn't have to leave. I knew, though, that I would not, could not leave Sherlock's side for long enough to reach the bed. I would stay, glued to him, until he woke.

The waiting was tedious. He returned from the operating theatre looking slightly better than he had gone in, but so fragile, so delicate. I wheeled him to his room, and then sat with him, and stayed that way for the four days that he never woke up. Ninety-six hours of hellish waiting, of wondering. And then he woke.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open just as I was reading to him the newspaper that Mycroft had brought in with him, like I always did, to keep him up to date on the news. I sprung up and stared down at him, our hands still tightly intertwined, only now Sherlock was squeezing back. I looked into his icy grey eyes, but they didn't look back. They were unseeing, they were blank.

"John? John, where are you? John, why is it so dark? I can feel you but I can't see you!" he became more and more distressed as I gently tugged the cord that would call the nurses. They rushed in, as did Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and I hugged Sherlock close. I knew why; he had gone blind, due to the collision. They were unsure as to whether he would ever regain his sight. Suddenly I had to leave; the guilt was overwhelming. If I had stopped him from getting into the car, if I had made more of an effort, then he wouldn't be this way. I was desolate. Hugging him for one last second, I left the room, running, sprinting away from Sherlock, from his brother and friends, hailing a taxi as soon as I made it out of the room. I had to leave, I had to get home, I had to get somewhere that I could cry this depression away. Sherlock would push me away, now, now that I had caused his blindness, now that he had lost his most precious gift. The taxi pulled up at 221B and I barely remember stumbling out, flinging money at the taxi driver, fumbling with my keys, and collapsing on the sofa, imbued with Sherlock's scent. I sobbed my heart out, the cathartic measures of tears helping ease the pain that ripped through my chest with every breath. Slowly, I sat up, wiping my puffy red eyes, and thinking. I needed comfort, I needed Sherlock, but I couldn't have Sherlock. So, his room.

I had never been in the room of Sherlock Holmes before, and it was an odd experience to enter it. There was a skeleton in the corner, but thankfully on closer inspection it was not a real bone skeleton, and paper littered every surface. There was no sign that Sherlock had slept in here in weeks, proving my theory that even when he 'went to bed', he was doing anything but sleeping. I quickly found the drawers I wanted, and inside lay every single scarf Sherlock owned, in every tasteful colour, all smelling of him. I knew that he would want one when he left the hospital in a week, and that Andrea would most likely be sent to collect some clothes for the dignified detective, and so to force myself to go back to him I took all of them to my room. That way I could go back with an excuse. The scarves, in the meantime, were my security blankets; they felt like home and smelt of Sherlock. But they also reminded me of the fact I had abandoned Sherlock to face the trauma of constant darkness, whilst I snuggled up in his shirt and scarf. I felt like a stalker at times.

A week later, I left for the hospital, all scarves but two returned to their rightful places; one for Sherlock, and one to keep. I was so worried that my return would be scorned, which was well within Sherlock's rights, but it would mean total and permanent heartbreak for me. I feared that he would think I betrayed him, which I guess I had. When I walked into the room and saw Sherlock standing so tall, so proud, back to me, even after everything, I felt an overwhelming surge of love for the brave, brilliant man. He turned with an almost desperate look on his face, and I had hoped beyond hope that it was because he had wanted me with him. But I was wrong, it seemed.

My heart had shattered when he told me I had a week; I didn't understand, though I accepted the fact he would want me gone, but the way he phrased it made it sound like _I_ would want to leave _him. _He had thought himself so repugnant in this state that I would want to escape. And he had told me he thought that he would be better off _dead._ I freaked out at this; I was so angry that he could think that way, and so afraid that he would try to end his misery, that I flew over to him and shook his shoulders. Big mistake; In my terrified and concerned state, I had completely brushed aside the fact he couldn't see me coming, and everyone knows that at the best of times Sherlock didn't like to be touched. He had curled in on himself, petrified at the sudden, violent contact, and I felt sick to my stomach that with one thoughtless action I could reduce such a great man to this state. He was even shaking slightly. I know I was as I hugged him tightly, trying to make up for the mistake. I told him I would leave, and put his scarf gently in his hand in a helpful but not condescending way, but he didn't like the idea. He was suddenly panicked, and called out my name, scrabbling for me in his endless abyss. I took his hands, showing him I was there and using the gesture as comfort for my distress at the state he was in. There was a tiny, almost silent _'don't leave me'_ and my heart swelled. I quickly engulfed him in my arms, love blossoming up and filling every inch of me. He wanted me to stay, so stay I would.

Now, here we were, me trying to hold back tears once more at the tragedy that had befallen such a genius, so innocent and undeserving a man as Sherlock. I would take the blindness for him if I could, I would die if it meant he could go back to his normal self, his brilliant, amazing, wonderful self. I would do anything for the man I loved. But he could never know my feelings. I was doomed to keep them hidden so that I wouldn't be rejected. I stood, attempting to leave, when Sherlock cried out, sitting bolt upright in bed, arms flailing.

"John! John!" He cried, frantically trying to find me. I quickly sat back down and guided his hands to my face, closing my eyes at the sensation. He calmed and lay back down, dragging me to lie alongside him, his hands clutching my shoulders. "I don't feel safe, John," he admitted quietly, wriggling so he was lower down the bed than me and he could bury his face in my chest. "But I feel safe with you." Those words were all I needed to never, ever leave his side again.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: A very long note coming up here, so skip it if you just want to read. It's an apology to all of my readers that I have been unfaithful to. It has been brought to my attention that I have veered off of the path that I started on with this story; it has become a soppy romance and lost the connection to Sherlock. I am exponentionally sorry. I meant this to be fun; to be a case with a twist, but I didn't keep to that. I didn't explain the case too much and kind of ruined it... it was supposed to be a brilliant case but my mind failed. And as for the begging for reviews - it's the insecure part of me that keeps niggling, saying 'this is a load of crap, Amy, no one likes it!' so it urges me to ask you guys to show if you like it or if you don't. And, in retrospect, it is completely pathetic. So that stops here. If you want to review, do, but I won't pressure you guys. I'm trying to fix it, and at this point it may need taking down and redoing, or I may start an alternative story and leave this for the romance, so that you romance lovers can have the Johnlock XP Once more an apology to those I let down. On with the short chapter, which is the beginning of the attempted fix. More than likely, Madita, you may have to watch out for another story. If people want this altered, tell me, or if they want another story for the case thing and leave this to Johnlock? But that isnt begging for reviews. True to word, this is for **OryonUK. **Sorry again, guys.

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><p>"He escaped." Mycroft growled as soon as he entered the flat. I stiffened from where I sat on the sofa, trying to type out some case histories, because I was unimaginably bored. Tilting my head in the direction of the door, I frowned. "Moriarty managed to escape. I do not know how, Sherlock, and if you were in any other condition I would ask you to take a look at the cell and see how he escaped. As it is, you are unable to deduce anything visually and have not yet tuned your other senses to compensate, which is, in my opinion, lax and disappointing, brother. I would have thought that you would be racing to get back to the consulting detective work as soon as you left the hospital. Now, there was a note left for you in the cell, but for personal reasons I have not opened it. I assure you, there is nothing in there that will harm you." I glared in the moving direction of my older brother as he came into the room and sat down, clicking his umbrella against the floor as he walked, and reached out a hand, into which the letter was slid. Then I stood, remembering the amount of paces and turns to get to the kitchen from the sofa, to find John. I stood in the doorway, awkward. Now I did not know where to go to get him. Luckily he came to me, grasping the letter.<p>

"You want me to read it?" he asked, patting my shoulder. Good. At least he understood how insensitive Mycroft was being. I nodded and he guided me back to the living room, sitting close next to me on the sofa. "_Sherlock,_" it read. "_You survived… again. Well done,_" I could almost hear the laugh that I am sure would have escaped his lips as he wrote this. "_But next time you may not. I'm coming to get you, Sherlock Holmes, and there's nothing you, or your idiotic brother, or your moronic pet can do about it. See you around…_" I shivered. "Mycroft, how the hell did you let this maniac slip through your fingers?" John shouted, standing. I didn't want him getting on the wrong side of a formidable man, so I stood up and pushed him back down.

"Thank you for delivering the note, Mycroft. John and I will visit the cell with you now, if you would be so kind as to escort us there. I would like to try to determine how he escaped." By the noise John made at this statement, he was not happy, but I had to try. I had to see how he had done it, even if when it meant not seeing it at all. He nodded and left, but not before giving us time to grab our coats. Well, John grabbed our coats and handed me mine. Together we left the flat, one guiding, one following, to go to my first blind crime scene.

It would be the action I would regret the most in my life.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry it took so long - I've been editing and typing up over 50 poems of mine in an attempt to get published... anyway dedicated again to **OryonUK**, and I'll let you get on with reading!

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><p>"This room was empty when I left," Mycroft frowned, stopping his younger brother with his umbrella. "I left it not half an hour ago, completely bare.<p>

It was a gruesome mass of blood and flesh, one even my time in Afghanistan could not prepare me for. My stomach rolled and I looked to Sherlock, who just stood, gazing eerily emptily into the room. He couldn't see the carnage, which was a blessing in some ways, seeing as I still felt him to be so innocent. To see such slaughter, such brutal mutilation, it would be a disgrace to someone so pure.

"Describe it to me, John. I need to know the details. Come on, think like me. You know you can. Explain the scene to me, leaving out nothing. That way I will form a mental picture in my mind and be able to, hopefully, deduce the clues as to what happened here, and the steps to take." Sherlock turned to face me, as if to look at me, but I knew he couldn't see me. I, in turn, glanced in panic to Mycroft; I didn't want to have to describe the violent murder of an innocent man to Sherlock, who was technically vulnerable to Moriarty's attack. Mycroft tilted his head, as if to say, _you have to tell him, John._ I took a deep breath, and walked into the room.

"We are in a windowless room, eight foot by ten foot, concrete walls, ceiling and floor. The door is five inch thick steel with a titanium lock," I paused, but Sherlock seemed to anticipate my next statement.

"No emotions or inferences, John. Just facts. Just tell me what you see." He directed, not moving from his spot in the doorway with an almost pained expression. I knew how much he wanted to explore, to whiz around the room making lightening deductions and solving the case instantaneously.

"Right. Okay, there is a chair in one corner, scrapes along the floor leading from the centre of the room to where the chair is now. The body and blood take up the middle of the room, as well as the majority of the floor. The body is spread eagle on the floor, head tilted up and mouth open. He has his stomach slit with surgical precision through the belly button horizontally across him, from one side to another, and on his chest are three symbols." I stopped again and frowned, deciding to move on and come back to them. "In the floor surrounding the body there is a cipher drawn in blood… the letters are MNRNBACG then HGRJ, followed by J, NBKAREI, then ZXD, EOPT, LFC, VM, SJEWMXLS, HQLRFB. Next line reads R, XRQMNTNM, BO, DUWO, CQM, HGAWU, XDB, OH, YTV, JWI, I, YIQM, KDB, FKRXU, R, JU, GQISH, CX, KAWSF, ZXD, CNKMFHRWIBNE, QBRW. Next like only has two words; EAVCI, PDC. Beneath that is a shorthand date; 02/05/1998. The man is in his thirties, short; around five foot seven, five eight; sandy blonde hair, looks like a military man…" I trailed off, realising what it was. Sherlock gasped, and Mycroft swore softly under his breath.

"John, John come here," Sherlock urged, reaching out and trying to take a step forwards, but warring with those deeply ingrained instincts that told him not to do anything to jeopardise the crime scene. I stumbled back to him and touched his shoulder, and he mapped my face with his hands, feeling the tension and most of all _fear_ radiating from me. He threw his arms around me in a desperate hug, and I nuzzled into his skinny chest, trying to calm down and not break out into hysterical tears. I couldn't let the madman get to me, I couldn't give in. I had to look after Sherlock, and help him get back on his feet. "The cipher is a date shift cipher – using a date to alter the letters. Reversing it reads; Moriarty here I escaped you won't get me Sherlock Holmes. I promised to burn the heart out of you and I will but first I am going to cause you unimaginable pain. Watch out." I trembled and felt Sherlock start to shake, but we both kept ourselves together for the other. "Next, describe the symbols for me, and trace my finger in your palm in their shape." The weakness of his voice rocked me to the core; Sherlock should not be so vulnerable, but here he was, blind and scared.

"Okay," I cleared my throat, and stared hard at the symbols. "The first is a vertical line with two prongs coming out and pointing diagonally up. They are connected in the middle of the vertical line and branch outwards at a forty-five degree angle. Next is another vertical line, with two lines coming out of different places in the line, one at the top and one about a quarter of the way down, connecting to make a triangle of the three lines, and there is a line about an inch below the bottom extended diagonal line that follows parallel to the upwards facing diagonal line, and about the same length. The final sign is an X with a diamond shape sitting in the top, rather like a cradle. Do you have any idea what they mean?" I asked, when Sherlock suddenly swayed against me. "Sherlock, what the hell, are you alright?" I held him up as he shook his head, looking at me with tear filled eyes.

"No, John, you need to get somewhere safe, you need to go, please," he cried, desperately clutching at my hands. "The symbols are Wiccan and mean Male, Friend and Death." A cold feeling settled in my gut. "You are my _only_ friend, John. He's going to kill you if you stay with me, please go," Suddenly the clutching hands shoved me away, and it was only quick reflexes that kept me on my feet. Tears were falling at a rapid pace from his unseeing eyes and I moved back towards him, intent on wiping them away.

No, Sherlock, I am not leaving you!" I exclaimed. "He's trying to shake you, to terrify you and make you weaker so that he can get you!" I gently swept my thumbs under his eyes, clearing the tears, and he threw himself at me, punching my chest with a strength not shown in his structure. "Sherlock, stop, please stop." I begged of him, trying to restrain his hands. Mycroft appeared at his shoulder, pulling him away.

"Sherlock, stop that this instant!" he commanded, making Sherlock cease the barrage of fists. I poked at my torso and felt the beginnings of a mass of bruises. That man can punch. "John is nothing but kind and supportive towards you, and this is how you repay them? My god, did Mummy teach you nothing?" Sherlock looked down, ashamed. "Apologise, now."

"No." The resoluteness in his voice hurt more than any beatings ever would, and I turned back to the bloody mess on the floor, more content to look at that than to face the feelings Sherlock's rejection stirred up. "I do not need to apologise to John, not now, not ever." My eyes burned and before I could realise my actions I was brushing past him and his brother, not listening to Mycroft's requests for me to stay, trying not to feel guilt when Sherlock recoiled at the sudden touch as I pushed past. I was walking out of the secure building, hailing a taxi, all the while trying to calm the tempest of emotions raging inside me, and stifle the aching of my heart.

"Bakers Street," I told the cabbie, breathing harshly. I couldn't let myself get so attached to a man who was a self-professed sociopath, a man so removed from society and emotions. I couldn't let myself be so open to weakness, so open to rejection and destruction. I had to distance myself from Sherlock Holmes or I would find myself completely and utterly annihilated. The taxi drew up and I paid, storming up to the flat, set on packing a bag and leaving for a couple of days, when a sight crumpled at the bottom of the stairs made me rush forwards. It was Sherlock. "Sherlock!" I cried, not knowing how on earth he managed to get back home so fast, but not caring. He seemed relatively unharmed but for a few bruises and scrapes indicating he had fallen down the stairs. "Sherlock, what did you do?" He tilted his head away from me, tears slipping from his eyes, but I picked him up and cradled him as I took him up to the living room. Once I had settled him on the sofa, I picked up his hand and tried again. "Sherlock; what happened?" He rolled onto his side away from me, so I pushed him into a sitting position and sat on the sofa next to him, lowering his head onto my lap, causing him to whimper and snuggle closer, clutching his hands blindly at my jumper. I smoothed his hair out of his eyes and gently skimmed the bruise on his forehead, just calming him until he spoke. My anger was completely gone, the rejection and anguish disappeared in the light of an injured Sherlock. He may have been nothing but an unfeeling idiot, but he was _my_ unfeeling idiot and I loved him.

"Mycroft got me home, three times faster than the average cab. I told him to leave; I knew I had to make it up to you and apologise before you… before you left me all alone. He went off and I couldn't stay still, and I was regretting what I said and I swear, John, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just want you safe, and so I went to try to find you, to wait outside or at least in the hall, and Mrs Hudson's out, but I was so panicked and distracted I couldn't remember the route to the stairs, and I thought there was an extra pace before the stairs when there wasn't and I fell… I feel so useless." He turned and buried his face in my stomach, and it took all of my army training to keep comforting him as if he didn't completely turn me on.

"Everything will be fine, Sherlock. You'll get used to the blindness, and adapt; your brain will cope with it and your genius will shine through, brighter than ever. You'll be as amazing and astounding as ever, and blow us all away with your intelligence and deductions. Just never try to send me away again, alright? Even if you think it will be for my own safety." He nodded, looking like he was going to protest but realising that I had a valid point.

"I realised after you went that even though I wanted to send you away, I never want you to be far from me. Why did you go, John?" the childish innocence and hurt in his voice made my heart break, but I soldiered on, quite literally.

"You didn't think that what you had done was wrong. You… don't think I'm worth apologising to." I whispered quietly, trying not to let the pain I felt filter through my voice, but apparently it did because he gasped.

"I did not mean that! I meant that I never have to apologise to you because Mycroft told me to, because you understand me. I was going to apologise once we got home, in private. I didn't… I hurt you, didn't I?" His hand snaked up to cup my neck and felt me shake my head, but as usual detected the lie and pointed it out. "Don't lie to me, John; I know when you do. How bad is it?" Truth be told, I didn't really think about it until he mentioned it, and then I stifled a sharp intake of breath – my whole chest pounded when I breathed. Sherlock tensed. "That bad, eh?" another tear made its appearance; honestly, now that Sherlock couldn't see people's reactions to his actions and emotions, he was more free with them.

"Manageable, Sherlock. I've had worse." I replied, dragging a thumb over his high cheekbones and down his jaw. "I was shot in the shoulder, remember?" He flinched, and I took that as a sign that bringing up the war wasn't the best idea. And everyone said _Sherlock_ had no social skills.

"I shouldn't have hurt you at all, John. I should never, _ever_ hurt you, mentally or physically, both of which I did today and to a severe extent. And I assume that I have left a plethora of bruises all over your torso, rendering it painful to breathe let alone move. We won't be leaving the flat for a few days, so that you can heal. I am so, so sorry, John." He sat up to wrap me up in a hug, and I nestled into him, revelling in the contact that before the accident had been so absent. I needed these hugs… I needed him. By God, I needed Sherlock Holmes, and by the sounds of things, he needed me too.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Bet you almost didn't recognise me, huh? I am so sorry to all of you wonderful readers out there who were waiting patiently for this update; I've been so bogged down! I know it's no excuse, but I've transitioned from compulsory school to Sixth Form and GOD was there a lot of drama! There's also been personal stuff going on, but I won't bore you with the details. Here's another fluff filled chappie for our favourite detecting duo! I'm back on track now and should be starting to update all the fics on here, so please, don't give up on me just yet!  
>PS: This isn't what you were expecting, oh no. TIME JUMP! =] It's also in third person, so I can get both viewpoints across better, because this right here is a turning point. Lads and Lasses, enjoy. <em>Amelie x<em>

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><p>It was always dark, always black. After a month Sherlock's vision had not returned, not improved, despite his pleas to whatever God didn't exist. John had not left him, even though that was what the dark haired man had anticipated, but there was the nagging feeling that he was a burden. The depression, although illogical, had set in while John had been recovering from his bruises, born of guilt and the sense that if he hadn't dragged John out on that first case, the 'Study in Pink', he wouldn't be trapped here with a blind man. This depression rendered him unmoving for hours, weeks, not talking, not sleeping, not eating, just trying with all his might to regain his vision for the good of the people of London… Who was he kidding. It was all for John.<p>

They were behind on the rent now because their sole breadwinner had been forced to quit work, lumped with a crippled sociopath, and they had no more favours coming in through Sherlock's work. Mrs Hudson didn't mind, she didn't say anything to them or bring them up on the sum they owed; she thought it wasn't their fault. Well, it wasn't _John's_ fault.

It was one of those days where Sherlock had been reduced to a comatose state and John was pacing in the front room. He was going out of his mind with worry for the lanky detective and just knew that their already dysfunctional pairing could not continue this way; he felt ill whenever he saw the weight loss, the sallow, pale complexion that covered Sherlock. It was up to the short doctor to get him up and back onto his feet, back out into the London network where he belonged. It was a fact that John had observed on the news that the street children of London were suffering without him, and so was the crime rate. But Sherlock had become adamant that they stay in, and not go 'cavorting around the streets' any longer. There must be another way to occupy that mind…

As he thought of the various different adventures they had been on together that Sherlock seemed to now resent, he was reminded of the text that Lestrade had sent: _Sherlock can come and get his wages if he wants… Sorry, insensitive. You both can come and pick up the money the Yard owes him at any time for all the work he's done for us. _John was getting worried about the rent that they owed Mrs Hudson and asked for an approximate amount, and was no less than astounded at how much Sherlock had done for the police without even thinking of charging them. The man could try denying his human traits as much as he liked, but John knew that he was a good man for these acts alone.

It was the only solution for the debt they now found themselves in, and although they both knew that Mrs Hudson would never bring it up she couldn't go without so much money without it having an effect on her life. John couldn't work, because he was too concerned that if he left, Sherlock would end up hurting himself, or worrying too much. He had done so when John had suggested one morning that he return to the clinic, and completely lost track of where he was. He ended up with home-sewn stitches down his thigh for managing to catapult a knife off the kitchen work surface. They didn't have free favours from new people because Sherlock was no longer helping people with their problems. They were suffering, and the only way that they could afford to keep living in what John now thought of as _their home_, was if they collected the generous figure from Lestrade; it would keep them comfortably in 221B for the next year, plus a home delivery from Tesco's of ever-essential milk for the same amount of time. It was also two birds with one stone; if Sherlock went to Scotland Yard to get the money, their rent would be back on track and Sherlock would be out of the house. It was a plan of action.

John headed out of the lounge and across the hall to Sherlock's room, taking a deep breath before pushing open the door. The room was swathed in darkness and had a suffocating stench of sweat and tears and the doctor instinctively knew it was only because the detective was trying so hard to regain the sight he lost. It was the fifth day of the silence from Sherlock and apart from breathing, he did nothing, and even then John knew he wished to remain perfectly still at times. It was clinical depression, and pained the blonde greatly that he couldn't stop the madness that consumed his closest friend. It broke his heart.

"Sherlock?" Tentatively John neared the bed, weaving through piles of books and papers to reach the bed. "Sherlock, get up." No answer, though it didn't surprise the doctor, who had tried before to get the man up. Coaxing him never worked. "Sherlock, we're going to the Yard, so up. Up!" He shouted before poking the youngest Holmes in the ribs. It wasn't what he wanted to do, to touch without warning, but he had to shock the man into moving. True to tried and tested methods, Sherlock yelped and skidded away, trance broken. "Good, you're up." John tried to remain cool and not envelope the vulnerable young man in an embrace, to reassure him once again that everything would be okay, but his voice wavered and his hands twitched. "Jump in the shower whilst I get your favourite suit. And don't touch the razor; it's Movember." John opened the blinds to show a rugged, red-eyed Sherlock, weak but beautiful, blankly gazing at the wall, unaffected by the sudden bright light hitting his face. John winced at the lack of pupil contraction and knew from the medical knowledge he yearned to forget that this wasn't a good sign. Sherlock nodded mutely and shuffled into the ensuite, slowly counting the steps and measuring his pace to ensure he avoided any obstacle in the room, and John could not help but marvel at the mind of the man in front of him. But he shook his head and busied himself in finding the suit he had sent to the dry-cleaners that Mrs Hudson had picked up. It would not do to dwell on things that would make him hope, he reminded himself.

It was five minutes later when the damp Sherlock emerged from a steaming bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It was such an appealing sight that John almost whimpered, but forced it down as he got up from the newly cleared desk chair. The dark-haired man looked even more alluring now that he was freshly washed and refreshed.

"John?" His voice was small and afraid, causing the doctor to rush to his side. "Can you… can you guide me? I… I'm disorientated. And tired." It was a mixture of adoration and concern with which John took the trembling hand reached out into the space in front of Sherlock, and helped him navigate the treacherous room. "I may have to get this place sorted out, John," the detective joked weakly, fumbling on the bed for his suit.

"You might just, Sherlock. I've only said that to you since I moved in here, idiot," the blonde replied fondly, whilst subtly shifting the suit into the space near Sherlock's hand, instead at the other end of the bed. "We're going to get the money Lestrade owes you so we can pay Mrs Hudson her rent, okay? We'll take a cab and then have a walk along the Thames. It's been too long since you got out." He tried to sound firm, but faltered when panic spread across Sherlock's face at the mention of the walk. He really didn't seem to be nearing thirty now; he seemed so young, so innocent and defenceless without his sight.

"I won't let you! You are not allowed to be outside for exposed amounts of time! What if Moriarty abducts you? What if he has snipers trained on us, or a bomb planted? No, John, no!" Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes and he turned, trying to find the man he was so worried about and gripping the woollen jumper harshly. "We can't go out until Mycroft finds him, John. We just can't." So that was the idea that Sherlock had. That his big brother would sort everything out. It was almost endearing that this tragedy had brought the brothers closer together, but John was too concerned about Sherlock to reflect on how accidents affect families. He wrapped his arms around the skinny man and allowed Sherlock to bury his curly head in the crook of his neck, seeking contact for comfort. These rare acts had stopped after the 'incident-where-Sherlock-had-cracked-his-ribs' as John so fondly called it, and it was a relief to feel the lean arms around his muscled body, to run his hands up a slender back to reassure Sherlock.

"Okay, Sherlock, we won't go for a walk. But we're too indebted to Mrs Hudson to not go and collect the wages you earned so rightfully with the work you've done, so we're going to Scotland Yard, and will come straight back here afterward, okay?" John soothed, and was rewarded with a small sniffle from the man pressed timidly against him.

"Okay," Sherlock conceded, drawing away. "But Lestrade has to get me an ice-cream, John, because his team will be mean to me." John laughed. _He's such a petulant child,_ he thought, murmuring his agreement anyway.

"No baiting them, though. That would be breaking the rules. Only if Donovan and Anderson are mean to you, and if you don't react, then you can have sprinkles." A smile graced Sherlock's chiselled face, and he held his hand out for his coat and scarf.

"Well then, John, I believe we are due to be somewhere. Let us go!" There he was – the real Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

The look of shock on everyone's faces as the two men entered Scotland Yard made John smirk as he guided Sherlock through the foyer. They no longer had to stop for ID checks and the like – the personnel were so familiar with the duo.

"John?" Sherlock muttered, standing tall and striding just like he used to, although slightly slower so that he could register John's helpful nudges and move accordingly. He felt John squeeze his forearm to show he was there, so Sherlock continued. "Everyone's quiet, but I know that Donovan and Anderson are in here. They just aren't jibing me. Why?" John looked around to see that the moronic pair was in fact in the lobby at opposite ends, and amazement that crossed his face formed a surprised chuckle.

"How the hell did you know that, Sherlock?" He asked, ignoring the detective's question. Sherlock shrugged and surveyed the area blindly.

"Simple, I could smell Anderson's revolting deodorant. In two places." There was a moment of silence before they both erupted into laughter, doubling over. It was just like it used to be between the two, the idiotic laughter, and the quips.

"Okay, well done. But remember, no provoking. We're nearly at Lestrade's office, so brace yourself. I think I can feel an onslaught of questions coming, and it's not going to be pretty." John warned as they turned into Lestrade's chaotic hellhole of an office. "Greg. It's so nice to see you again." The Detective Inspector looked up sharply from his desk to see his favourite crime-solving couple standing in his doorway, though different; John looked exhausted, stressed and broken, and Sherlock had adopted the rugged, almost-got-a-beard look that actually suited him and his insane cheekbones.

"Bloody hell! John, Sherlock?" He rose and went to greet them before noticing the faraway look in Sherlock's eyes, and stopped short. "No change?" he mouthed to John, who shook his head. "It's good to see you, boys. Come on, sit down!" They sat, and Sherlock ran his fingers along the edge of the desk before turning to John's direction and holding out a hand. John took it and placed it on his own arm rest, gently caressing the long fingers. Lestrade observed quietly, noticing the change in dynamics in the strange relationship. They had definitely grown closer. Sherlock felt at ease only when he was close to or actually touching John, and the doctor was highly protective.

"Lestrade, we've come to collect my wages, then we're off. We aren't stopping, we aren't answering questions. We need to pay the rent to Mrs Hudson, and then we are retreating to 221B once more. Yes, I am blind. No, I am not recovering just yet. No, you may not touch me without telling me precise… in fact, you may not touch me at all. And yes, you owe me an ice-cream. _With Sprinkles._" John burst out laughing and flicked Sherlock's fingers at his monologue, which didn't make the man jump, but it was only because the raven-haired man was so in tune with his Doctor. "Oh yes, and you may want to stop seeing your wife again. She's sleeping with the Chemistry teacher this time." The flick was harder this time, as John snorted.

"I'll count that as provocation if you do that again, Sherlock. You know the deal." John warned. He could see that Sherlock was about to whine, but he growled. "Sherlock Holmes, you will not argue with me!" He was dangerously close to pulling the middle name trick at the pout, but he stopped. "Greg, if you would. He only agreed on the basis that you got him an ice-cream." Lestrade threw his hands up, but went to the door of his office.

"Wait!" Called Sherlock. When Lestrade sighed, he continued. "Don't make Anderson or Donovan get it; they'll spit in it." He frowned. "Call Molly, tell her to get it. Double whippy with a flake and sprinkles." John looked exasperated.

"Sherlock!" He cried. "You can't call Molly and tell her to come across to the other side of London just to get you an ice-cream!" Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes – or at least, he looked in John's general direction – causing the medic's resolve to crumble. "Call _Mycroft_ and get the ice-cream. That's my compromise. It's either him or someone at the Yard. You're not using Molly again." A huff came from the lanky man beside John, but he reluctantly nodded.

"Text him, then. And make sure you say Vanilla, and tell him if he puts in any nuts, I'll tear his off." Came the sulky orders from the blind young man. Sure he was going to be taken away and quietly executed for the text he was about to send, John did as Sherlock had asked then turned to the DI once more.

"Could you sort that money out, please? Sorry to be so crass, Greg, but Sherlock's getting agitated." Lestrade looked like he completely understood and went out in search of the department that would be able to help the pair. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock fumbled his way to John's chair and pulled him up, looking from side to side wildly. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, confused.

"Get somewhere that can't be reached in an arc of the window and the door, John. Now!" He urged when John did nothing. Suddenly the doctor snapped into soldier mode and scanned the room for a place big enough for the two of them that complied with the conditions, and found that under the desk was the only place. He guided Sherlock down, and clambered into the small space alongside the tall man. "Thank you, John." Then a shaking Sherlock was once again in his arms, and John could do nothing but thank the stars that _his_ Sherlock was back.

"It's fine, Sherlock. Really. We'll be home soon, and then I'll make us a good cuppa if we stop off at the corner shop to get some fresh milk. We can sit in our own flat, rent paid, in comfort again. Everything will be fine. Everything will be back to normal." Sherlock slowly stopped trembling and relaxed in John's arms, nuzzling lightly. It was so confusing for him to be in a place that he hadn't been used to, and the smells and sounds were foreign and frightening. The one thing that had kept constant in all of this, since even before he had lost his sight, was John. He didn't want to let him go. He wanted to be closer. He needed, for once in his life, to have the comfort that John embodied. He knew his vow was that he would never tell John how he felt, but Sherlock was dangerously close to forgetting.

"It doesn't matter, none of it matters as long as you stay, John." He could feel the doctor tense, so decided to change what he was going to say. "I can halfway trust you to help me in my time of need." He felt John tense even more and was confused. What did he say wrong? Suddenly John was pulling away and he was losing the closest thing he had ever had, and Sherlock could feel him slipping through his fingers but couldn't see his face to know what he had done, what he could say to make it better. He was grasping frantically at John, trying to make sure he stayed, but the medic yanked himself away and got out from under the desk. Sherlock was alone as John left the room.

John knew he shouldn't leave Sherlock in a strange room, all alone, but he had to escape before his heart… with a pained gasp, John knew he had left at the right moment, because his heart broke and tears escaped his eyes. It hurt so much to hear that the only reason he had been kept around was because he was useful, and that Sherlock could trust him to help. Not even fully trust him. It destroyed his soul, became more painful than he had ever imagined. He vaguely realised Lestrade was towering over where he knelt, asking what was wrong, trying to help him up, but all he knew was the decimation of his world.

After everything they had been through together, after all they had seen, done and survived; it seemed a few choice words had broken Doctor John Watson.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I know it's short, but the cliffhanger has to happen, or else it wouldn't be so big. Bear with me and review. Toodle Pip! _Amelie x_

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><p>He was on his own. He had been abandoned. The only person he could ever care for in the world had gone. Curled up underneath a policeman's desk, blind and vulnerable, Sherlock Holmes wept.<p>

John couldn't breathe and his eyes were unfocussed. He was in agony from the sociopath's cruel words, though he knew he shouldn't be surprised to know that there were no feelings inside the detective. Then he realised what he had done – he had left a sightless man in a room he had no knowledge of, shocked and disorientated. He had to get Sherlock home, even if John didn't follow.

He was becoming more aware of his surroundings, as the sides of the desk slowly started closing in on him, crushing him, stopping him from being able to think. He had to escape the cage. He threw himself out of the gap in the sides, hitting the wall with an unimaginable force and gasping in pain. Sherlock had to get out of the room and find John, explain himself, and get his calm influence back. He stumbled along the walls, gaining numerous bruises where he had hit objects lining the edges of the room. Finally he came to the door and leapt out into the corridor, slamming into the other side. He fumbled his way along, speeding steadily until he was nearly jogging, when suddenly he tripped over something on the floor and went flying. Everything went black.

Crashing and banging was bringing John slowly out of my reverie, breaking him from the heavy trance of torture. It was getting closer and he hesitantly brought his head up from between his legs, but he couldn't focus on anything. Then, with a yelp, there was a sharp kick to his side, and someone was careening into the air above him. Everything came crisply into focus when the person hit the ground and crumpled; it was Sherlock.

"Oh, God! Sherlock!" John cried, rushing over to the battered form of his flatmate. The man was unconscious, and bruised, and it was obvious he had been crying. All thoughts of his own pain vanished and he was scooping Sherlock into his arms and running out of the office, calling over his shoulder. "Lestrade! Come to Baker's Street with the stuff we need!" He rushed out onto the street, hailing a cab and trying to revive the man, but no cab would stop and Sherlock wouldn't wake up. Then an inconspicuous black car pulled smoothly to a stop. Of course it would be Mycroft. John didn't have a choice, so got in, and they pulled out into the traffic.

"Mng… John…" Sherlock started to wake up, rolling his head from side to side. Then his eyes opened and he stared up into John's face. "John!" Burying himself in the short man's stomach, he let out a scream. "John!" It couldn't be. He looked up once more, and it was true. He could see again.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Back again. This morning I got a review from Dewdrops, asking whether I was ever going to continue the story. I am so sorry that I gave the impression I wasn't. It's been really busy and I had writers block across the board, but I want you to have this.

I am going to be adding in some OCs for a plot addition that I'm planning, so my offer goes out to you all now - if you want to have a minor role in any, and I mean _any_ of my fictions, then review them (so I know you care) and then PM me with what you want your character to be like. I'll be doing it soon, so please, don't dally. Not that I'm threatening you with an ultimatum.

I love this story - it's my personal favourite of the eight that I write, so if you like it too, or have any suggestions/criticisms or anything, review!

Enjoy, _Amelie x_

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><p>Last time: …<em>it was true. He could see again.<em>

John felt Sherlock stir but refused to look down; he would get the man to his brother, and then he would leave for good. His heart couldn't take it anymore. There was no way he could survive such emotional turmoil without going insane. His soul was being torn up into little pieces, his mind whirling so fast he could not hope to keep up. Then Sherlock started mumbling John's name and it took every ounce of his willpower to resist running his hands through the detective's hair and soothe the blind man. It would not do to get too attached; he would never leave if he allowed himself the privileges he had gained over the past month. John gasped when Sherlock buried his face in his stomach, clenching strong, lean arms tight around the doctor's middle, and then screamed. Poor John didn't have the willpower to stem the concern that flooded him, couldn't help but look down. And Sherlock was looking right back at him, stormy eyes sharp and clear and focussed.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, sitting up in what he realised was his brother's car to face the man he had missed for so long. "John, I can see you again!" He threw his arms around the doctor's neck, the doctor who had cared for him relentlessly and without demands of payment while he was stuck in the darkness. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from hugging him close and burying his nose in the sandy blonde hair he had dreamt of so often in those dark, terrifying months.

John couldn't help but react to the affectionate embrace, rejoicing. Perhaps now, with this return of sight, Sherlock would be able to warm back up to him, or at least stop sending such tantalising hints then ripping all hope away from the doctor.

"We need to get you to a doctor that specialises in neurobiology and optometry, because I am not entirely sure that this will last…" he whispered, so reluctant to break the happy aura exuding from the man he loved. He could feel Sherlock deflate and they separated. "I'm really happy for you, Sherlock, I promise, but we have to check. I'll get you to your brother's and then we'll get it all sorted." John pulled out his phone and called the number he had been given to call if he needed to contact Mycroft. "Hello, Mycroft? Yes, it's John. I need to ask that you get an optometrist and a neurobiologist of the highest quality. Sherlock's regained his vision but… yes. Thank you. Okay. See you in a bit." He hung up the phone and looked at the man who was sitting next to him in the small car. Sherlock looked as though he was fine, but he couldn't be sure. "Sherlock?" He questioned, trying to entice the detective from his thoughts. Suddenly Sherlock was crazed and wildly gesturing.

"I was trying to find you! I didn't mean what I said!" He yelled, manically needing John to understand. "I didn't want you to leave me but because I said what I did, you left anyway and I was so… so scared." He trailed off. "Please, John, understand." He closed his eyes, begging his warm, caring friend to guess, to _deduce _what he felt, because the sociopath couldn't put it into words that anyone would care to listen to.

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter. Look at me," John commanded, gently pulling his head up. "We may only have limited time with your eyesight, so we have to move quickly and solve Moriarty's game. Then we can talk about whatever you want." Sherlock could already feel the strain on his head when he opened his eyes and knew, with a pained groan, that his sight wouldn't last for long at all.

"John, I can feel it going already," he replied, cradling his head in his hands. "I'm going to go back into the darkness and be alone again." He could feel that he was close to weeping, but tried to stay strong; John didn't need to see him in such a state. Warm arms encased him once more, burying his head into the crook of John's neck.

"Okay, it doesn't matter anymore. Moriarty can wait, just please, Sherlock, don't retreat back into yourself like you did. I don't want to see you alone; feeling like the entire world is on your shoulders when I'm here for you." John whispered softly, running his hands through the curls of Sherlock's hair, feeling the silky ringlets wrap around his fingers and fall away.

"John… I need to tell you what I wanted to say in the office. I need you to know…" Sherlock took a deep breath, pulling away to look up into John's cerulean eyes. They were warm, trusting and honest; how could he keep this from him for a second longer? His vision was starting to blacken around the edges, the pain intensifying the longer he kept his eyes open, but he forced himself to work through the pain. John nodded, encouraging him. Sherlock knew he trusted John, how could he not, but this was the decision that would make or break their relationship. "John… Ever since the night at the museum, I've been thinking of you differently. It became clear to me that night that I… No!" He broke of, angry at himself that he couldn't tell John what he wanted to say. He scrunched his eyes up, slamming a fist down on the leather seat below them. Earnestly, he tried again. "John. There is so much I want to say to you that I cannot process or formulate correctly. I've been feeling more emotion since I met you than I ever have before, and although it's been cripplingly new, I wouldn't change it for the world. You need to know, before I lose my vision again, what I wanted to tell you before I got in the car. It was the biggest mistake I made not telling you before." Opening grey eyes once more, Sherlock suddenly felt calm. He didn't feel the pain of his optic nerves frying, didn't feel the fear that he would lose John. He could never lose John – they were too close that even if his feelings were not reciprocated, they would move past it. Everything would be fine. "John, I love you."


	14. Chapter 14

It was silent. John hadn't replied. Sherlock had closed his eyes, the pain too great to keep them open, but he was at peace with himself. He knew that John wouldn't return his feelings, but was reassured that he wouldn't leave him. They would be fine, because they would be together.

"Sherlock…" John's shocked voice broke through his calm reverie, and the detective lifted his head in the doctor's direction, not opening his eyes.

"It doesn't matter, John. I needed you to know what I was feeling because I couldn't hide it without hurting you, something I never wanted to do. You needn't say anything, do anything, I just wanted you to know." He smiled softly and ran his hands gently through his curls, brushing them back from his face. John was shifting in his seat, edging closer to Sherlock, but he didn't mind. They couldn't change.

"Sherlock. Listen to me." John commanded, taking one of Sherlock's hands from his hair and holding it. He could see the denial on the pale man's face, the illusion that he was fine tenuous and fragile. Sherlock himself didn't want to admit how close he was to breaking, so much so that he fooled himself into feeling he was alright. He was perilously hanging onto the edge of control, and was about to tip over into helpless despair. "Come here." He tugged the sociopath into his arms, cradling him and tucking his curly head into the crook of his neck. Sherlock started to tremble, losing his grip on his emotions. "I love you too, Sherlock. So much. I have since I met you. I love you." This was the breaking point. As he confessed, John could feel Sherlock starting to shake with sobs, curling into his doctor and wrapping long arms around him. John held him close, perfectly happy. Sherlock tilted his head up, searching, and John finally, _finally_ claimed the lips he had yearned for every day for months. Their kiss was sweet, tender and chaste, and held so much promise. They were going to be alright.

"I love you."

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><p>It's finished! After so long, I've made it! I know it's short and sort of abrupt, but worry not - there will be a sequel. I just felt that this story was so full of the discovery of their love for one another, that the relationship they create should have it's own.<p>

Please review, and be on the look out for the first chapter of _Seeing in the darkness_!

Thank you to all of my faithful, wonderful reviewers - you kept me going, encouraged me, berated me and filled me with love. I love you all.

Until next time, live long and prosper. _Amelie Elizabet Grey xxx_


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